Saving London's Children
by The Butterfly Mistress
Summary: "The drive was slow with traffic, and Greg kept taking glances in the backseat to make sure the lump was still breathing. "You want to tell me your names now?" He gave a sideways look. There was silence for a long moment, but patience was awarded. "I'm John," he answered, grimacing in pain, as the medications began to wear off. "My friend…his name is, Sherlock.""
1. Chapter 1

A/n: Don't own Sherlock. This story is unbetaed and was written within a couple hours. All mistakes are my own. I'm considering it a oneshot for now. If its liked enough I may write more, if the mood strikes me to add more, I might do it even if its not well received. That being said, I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if it fits your fancy. God Bless.

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Saving London's Children

It was the eyes that always disturbed everyone that got close enough to look in them. Stormy, grey clouds that had seen too much for the young boy that held them would haunt Lestrade until the day he died. It had only been a brief glimpse, as the small hoodlum made an escape with his older accomplice. The child had looked back, lip between beige teeth, uncertain. If the older boy hadn't grabbed the younger's arm and started ensuring his continued movement, Greg was sure he would have caught up to them. They had made off with food and a few miscellaneous objects from the Tesco Shop again; it was the fourth time that month. It was always the same mart, always once a week, just never the same day or time.

Other stores were hit, by other ragamuffins, varying in age, but they were usually more careless in their patterns and were easily caught. They were all street kids, clearly, and the detective could hardly fault them too much, but stealing was still a crime. Most of the youngsters, when caught, would be placed in an orphanage, the older lot would be hauled off to a juvenile detention center. It wasn't always ideal, but it was better than letting them stay on the streets.

Greg Lestrade didn't bother to chase the duo for too long; they were lightning fast and seemed to disappear on the spot. He returned to the shopkeeper and informed him that he had lost them, gave him his apologies, and promised to keep suits around the area on the lookout. If he were honest with himself, these calls always burdened his heart, more than any other. Coming face to face with the fact that so many of London's children were on their own, without family, a roof, or a hot meal, it was horrifying. Most people around them didn't seem to care enough to notice that homeless children were amongst them, as long as they weren't effected, who cared? The apathy could be found even amongst some of his own team, it was sickening.

With a sigh, Lestrade wrote up his report and turned out his lamp light. He usually stayed well into the night, nothing but quiet and loneliness awaited him at home, however, tonight he was going to start investigating all the twists and turns he saw those kids make, see if he can find where he lost them at. Maybe there were some clues strewn about that could finally lead him to those haunted eyes and his sandy haired companion.

Crumbs, crumbs, in the form of marshmallows are what caught Greg's eye, leading a trail from the third turn they had made. Obviously one of their stolen goods had been torn open and it was ironic that it was leading him to his lost boys, similar to the story of Hansel and Gretel. He didn't ponder that thought too much, just followed the sugary trail. It came to a stop at a dead end, in between two apartment buildings, and he highly doubted that they had gone inside either one of them, as both buildings were fully occupied, and none of the occupants would just let raggedy children they couldn't identify inside.

If they couldn't go forward, backward, or inside, that left the only option of going up. So, up he went on the fire escape and on to the roof. Not a child to be found, but that might explain their sudden disappearances. It's an option he would have to keep in mind for next time, the following week. In the meantime, exhausted and hungry, he went home and tried to let his thoughts drift to a way he could help the homeless population of youth.

The next time didn't wait a week, it was the second mistake to have been made and the most fatal. Two days later, it was chilly, damp morning, and Lestrade found himself being called out to the Tesco he'd been at before. The shopkeeper, smirking triumphantly, held a lad with sandy blonde hair, and an angry scowl, by the scruff of the neck. The boy's hands had been tied with a rope behind his back, and he struggled immensely against the binds and his captor. As the old detective neared, the child's eyes widened and he put forth a stronger effort to escape. Lestrade recognized him to be the elder of the two scraggly accomplices. He knelt down to be eye level with the ward and spoke in gentle tones.

"Hey there, lad," he greeted, trying not to spook him, dutifully ignoring the eyes of his team. No doubt they would have simply hauled him off to the station, but that would have gotten them nowhere. "Can you tell me your name"

"Where's your partner in crime, huh? Is he here somewhere making off with what you're after, while you play a distraction?" The shopkeeper's grip tightened as he pulled at the delinquent's neck. The boy grimaced and then steeled his features.

Lestrade reached out and grabbed his shoulder, taking the kid in his charge officially. "Donovan, will you take Mr. Archer aside and have him fill out a statement?" Trusting her to do as ordered, he led his charge out to his car. "Now, how about a name? Can you do that for me?" At the tightlipped silence, he tried again. "What about what you came after? What did you forget on your last trip or suddenly find yourself in need of?"

Ocean-blue eyes cast downward, he shifted from foot to foot, as if weighing whether or not he should just tell the officer and get it over with, or if he would be able to risk an escape. Donovan came up to them before the child could decide, and handed her boss a roll of gauze.

"Victim says this is what the runt had tried to take before he grabbed him." She eyed their suspect with disdain, and sniffed pointedly, as if the odor emanating was adding insult to injury.

"Thank you, Sally," he dismissed. Eyeing the white strips, he became worried, quickly checking over the kid in front of him. "Are you hurt?" He looked malnourished, certainly filthy, had a fair amount of bruises and scars, but no blood in sight. "Is your friend injured? Is that why you need this?" He held out the possession to the boy.

He eyed the inspector with distrust and then gazed upon the desired object. Lestrade could see the decision being made and being enacted before he had time to even think about reacting. Quickly, the gauze was snatched from his hand with teeth, just as a knee sprung forward for an attack. With Lestrade down, the kid took off as fast as his legs would carry him. Donovan rushed over to him and helped him up, while a few of his men hightailed it after their suspect. Greg waved off her concern as he gulped some air in; pushing past the pain he joined in the chase. However, he didn't follow the trail the boy had led his men down; he went to the dead end and climbed the ladder to the roof. Settling down behind a chimney stoop, he waited.

He startled when he heard a gunshot off in the distance and inwardly cursed his men if they actually fired at that preteen kid. No more than 15 minutes passed by when his ears caught wind of groaning metal. Someone was making their way up to him. Crouched low and ready, when feet hit the concrete of the roof, he jumped out, ready to grab the prize. Unfortunately, his prize was slouched against the area near where he came up, holding a bleeding wound, grimacing in pain and gulping in air to fight off passing out.

Again, Lestrade found himself cursing his team at their thoughtlessness. Placing his hands before him, placating, he approached the wounded child slowly. Terrified orbs watched him, resigned to his fate, and fell unconscious where he sat. Lestrade called for an ambulance and rode with criminal turned patient. As he waited in the family room for the surgeon to come and give him news, he got the story and laid into the officer who thought it a good idea to shoot a kid, suspending him on the spot. The hospital had nearly kicked him out for all the yelling.

The surgery only lasted a couple hours and there had been minimum damage, at least nothing a few months of therapy wouldn't fix. It was another hour and half before the anesthesia wore off and he was able to see and try and talk to the groggy patient. As soon as he saw Lestrade, the boy tried to escape, not evening noticing his new handicap. Thankfully, drugged up, he was easy to apprehend.

"Easy kid, I know those drugs are good, but you're going to hurt yourself even further if you don't relax. I'm not going to let anything more happen to you, I promise," he assured, patting the dirty, matted head.

"No, no, you don't understand, please, please, let me go," came the first response, barely whispered. Greg had to strain hard to hear.

"What I don't understand? Son, sit up and talk to me properly. Tell me what's going on." A nurse came in as the heart monitor beeped erratically. "Settle down now, lad. She'll have to sedate you if you don't, for your own good. Then it will be even longer before you can get done what you need to."

The logic provided had those blue eyes looking at him in a panic. "You can't! Please, let me go. I need to get to him."

"Tell me where he is and I'll go get and him and bring him to you," he tried.

"He won't come with you, he only trusts me. Please, I need to get to him!" Again the teenager tried to get out of the bed, only to be held back by Lestrade.

"How about you tell me and we'll all come back here so you can recover and he can be treated too?" He wasn't sure that he would technically be able to do that, but he had to try something. It seemed to appease his charge, cause he nodded frantically. Lestrade attributed the ease of persuasion to the drugs the kid was still heavily under the influence of.

After a heated discussion and much protest, the patient was put in a sling and allowed to go with Greg, under the strict orders that once the other young one was found, that they were both to be brought straight back to the hospital for medical attention and watch. With much hesitation, even drugged, the sandy haired child took Lestrade's hand and allowed the officer to buckle him in to the police car. The officer followed the directions given to him and found the "home" of his sought out escapees. The anxious boy beside him only waited long enough for Lestrade to unbuckle him before he was falling out of the car and running off toward the underneath of a bridge, mere feet away from a sewer piped. Greg raced after him, trying not to breathe through his nose, and ran faster when he saw the injured child fall.

When he got closer, he could see that the boy hadn't passed out, but had dropped to his knees beside a younger child, and had gathered him up in his good arm. He bared his teeth at Lestrade's approach, growling as he protectively curled around his friend. Hands placed about before him once more, he kneeled before them both. Producing the gauze from his jacket pocket, he looked over what he could see of the smaller form to find what needed to be wrapped. Both arms had been gnawed on, and at least one palm had deep nail marks and grooved. He got to work, wrapping what he could reach, the blood had already clotted, but it made Lestrade feel better to bandage them anyway.

"Ok, let's get you two healed up, shall we?" He gathered the unconscious child, from his hesitant friend and one safely secured, made their way back to the hospital as instructed. Before they left, Lestrade made sure to pack his truck with what belongings he could see of theirs.

The drive was slow with traffic, and Greg kept taking glances in the backseat to make sure the lump was still breathing. "You want to tell me your names now?" He gave a sideways look.

There was silence for a long moment, but patience was awarded. "I'm John," he answered, grimacing in pain, as the medications began to wear off. "My friend…his name is, Sherlock."

Lestrade nodded. Before he could ask another question, John asked one of his own. "Are you going to separate us? Send me to jail and put him in an orphanage?" He bit his lip and looked back at his sleeping friend. He winced when he made out of the tear tracks on the dirty face. No doubt he thought he'd been abandoned after so long.

"No." A short and sweet reply, which Lestrade didn't know where came from. He suspected that he'd do or say anything to reassure the boys he'd been looking for several months. He just hoped he wouldn't promise anything that he couldn't keep. John wasn't old enough yet to be put in juvenile detention, at least he didn't look like it, and he couldn't really guarantee that one orphanage would take them both, but he would try his hardest to keep them together, of that he was certain. "How old are you both?"

Another hesitant pause, "I'm twelve and Sher's eight," he replied. "Are you going to keep us or let us go?"

Lestrade raised a brow, daring to take his eyes off the road for a second to see if the kid was seriously asking that. "You're not going back on the streets, John. I won't allow that, end of discussion."

"Then you'll keep us yourself?" There was a slight bit of hope mixed with that defiant question. "No one else is going to let us stay together. Not after all the trouble we caused…"

"We'll see," Greg told him vaguely, a lump forming in his throat from what he was contemplating.

Once at the hospital, Greg had them move John and Sherlock into the same room, and told them that both boys were under his guardianship for the time being. He wanted to be kept informed, especially if he was going to go through with his foolhardy idea. John reluctantly explained that his friend had a bit of autism and took to biting himself when his fits came on. If he woke up to strangers he was going to go into another spell, so they allowed the beds to be close enough, that it almost made one large bed with the side rails unlocked.

For safety of both patient and staff, they kept Sherlock sedated while they attempted to rehydrate and dress the wounds. John watched their every move and would only accept more pain medication once they were through with his friend. Lestrade promised to keep watch over them both, so they could rest without fear and if one of them woke up, he'd rouse the other.

"Promise, Mr. Lestrade?"

"Yeah, lad, just rest now." He hushed and soothed the blonde to sleep. Once he was sure that the boy had drifted off to dreamland he stepped as far away as he could, without leaving, to call into work. He informed his boss of the situation and requested time off. It was granted. He then broached the topic of possibly taking custody of both boys, in which his boss lectured him and then told him to really think about rather than let his emotions con him into something he might later regret. Lestrade had to concede it was a rash decision, but one he was pretty set on. Before the call ended his boss told him,

"You're a good man, Lestrade, with a big heart. If you want to give those boys your heart, you have my full support, but don't give it to them and later decide that fathering two damaged boys is not for you after all. Take some time, think about it. Talk to them about it. They may not want that. You have plenty of days of leave. Take them, see what happens. Keep me informed."

He sat by the bedsides, thinking, making plans, praying. He left only briefly to stop by the gift store and pick up two teddy bears, one beige and one brown and black mixed. When the sun peaked out from its cover of darkness, he was sure he was making the right decision, and he would win the hearts of those kids, if it was the last thing he did.

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A/n: Don't own Sherlock. This story is unbetaed and was written within a couple hours. All mistakes are my own. I'm considering it a oneshot for now. If its liked enough I may write more, if the mood strikes me to add more, I might do it even if its not well received. That being said, I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if it fits your fancy. God Bless.


	2. Chapter 2

A/n: Still don't own Sherlock. I was informed that I had to continue on as my friend's life depended on it, so I wrote a second chapter for this story. I may make more, depending. I'm not as fond of this chapter as I am the other, but I hope you like it. Still unbetaed. If you like it or have any thoughts, leave a review. Thank you, and hope you enjoy.

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It was well into the afternoon before anyone stirred in room 321. Nurses had been in and out throughout the night, monitoring, poking, and prodding, but there had not been so much as a peep. Even the good detective had been able to doze for a few hours. Unfortunately, the calm and peace couldn't last.

Sherlock was the first to awake, in the unfamiliar area. The soft bedding, the sterile feel and smell of his surroundings distressed him greatly. Had someone found him and taken him away? Had John left him? No, no, no. He didn't like the texture of the sheets, they itched his skin. The smell was horrendous and nauseating. The repetitive rocking motion was blissful and calmed him, but the ear piercing whine was torturous. Where was he? The smell, the beeping noise in the background, the itchy bed clothes, he was in a hospital. Why? He didn't like hospitals; he would never willingly go to one. Doctors are cruel, they poke and prod and fake smile. No, no, no. He wasn't happy. This wasn't right. Where was John? _I need John!_

John and Lestrade were roused by a keening noise, with every other breath John's name being murmured. Without hesitation, Greg was out of his seat and going to his young charge's aid, before John could tell him not to. The first touch halted the whimpers and moans, and an agonized scream replaced them. As if burnt, Greg jerked his hand back and stumbled backwards, hope that distance would still the boy. Nurses rushed in, needle ready with a light sedative to resupply the tranquility, but before they could get to close, John was hovering over his friend, whispering quietly. The preteen was wrapping every inch of himself around Sherlock, using his body as protective shield.

Slowly, the wails quietened to moans that quietened to whimpers, which then in turn slowed to sniffles as tears continued to stream down the impossibly sharp cheeks. His fingers were covered in saliva from where he'd been chewing on his fingers, the blood from the wounds swirling with the drool to make a pink mixture.

Lestrade held back the nurses and sent them back out the room, things were returning back to normal, without the use of drugs, and the fewer people in the room Sherlock didn't know, the better. No sense in scaring the boy beyond repair. He had enough to take in already. He stood off to the side watching his two wards interact, listening, and learning.

John carefully took the bleeding limb from his friend's mouth, ignoring the excessive amount of tinted drool. He placed the hand into his with the injured arm. He wiped the spit off onto the sheets and raised it once more to the tear streaked cheek, frowning when the contact was met with a flinch. "Sherlock," John called, soft, concerned. "Sherlock, it's me, John. You're alright."

Stormy eyes, pools overflowing still, rose to look John in the face before the gaze dropped back to the hand that held his own. "John?"

"Yes, yes, it's me, Sher. I've got you."

Sherlock flung himself at the older boy, burrowing a snotty nose into the other boy's gown, gauzy arms wrapping around the slim girth. John encircled him in return, as much as he could with only his left arm, steadfastly denying that the pressure on his right arm was causing a great deal of pain. Sherlock was more important and he made effort to squeeze the shoulder he could reach.

John's gown wasn't any less itchy than the stupid sheets, but it was John, and Sherlock would tolerate the incessant tickling for John. John hadn't left him. He'd come back for him after all. Why, then, were they at a hospital?

As if reading his mind, John supplied, "You hurt yourself again, Sher. Your arms. I had to go back for bandages, but I got caught." The slight form he held tensed and he rushed to soothe. "It's okay though, it turned out alright. Mr. Lestrade, he helped me get you help. I got to even ride in the front seat of a real police car!" He exclaimed, trying to make it sound more interesting and fun than what it really had been _. It's for Sherlock_ , he reminded himself. The boy was a dang genius in his own right though, and could read through every lie. _Don't even know why I bother, really. Cause I gotta try for Sherlock, that's why_.

"We're too young to go to jail, and no orphanage will take us together, John," Sherlock's voice was sullen, but clear, as if he hadn't just flipped out them. The little imp rubbed the mucus and tears on to John's gown, successfully cleaning his face. He leaned back from the embrace to smirk at his handy work. His roaming eyes took in the body fluid art on the front of his friend's gown, and then noticed the bony arm he had leaned against was in a sling. He frowned and followed the limb up to the injured shoulder. He gasped and reached out to touch, as if to check it was real, but his hand was intercepted by John's other.

"I'm ok. Just a scratch." He didn't tell the young boy how much it ached, and how scared he'd been, how even though he got wounded going after an item for Sherlock's wellbeing, nothing in the world would ever make him blame him. Sherlock could read that himself, there wasn't even point in hiding it.

When it appeared all was right in their world, or as close as it could currently be under the circumstances, Lestrade approached them from his corner. Steel eyes sprang to him at the first step and he could seem the form tense and prepare to spring from the bed at first sign of threat. John looked over at him, hand placed on Sherlock's knee to keep him still. He stopped two feet from the bed and took a seat in the chair beside it. "Hello, Sherlock, it's nice to finally meet you." He smiled softly, tone gentle, voice low.

"This is Mr. Lestrade, Sher. He's the one that helped us. He says he's going to make sure no one separates us," John informed the younger, as a matter of fact.

The derisive snort was not comforting in the slightest, but wasn't unexpected. He allowed the calculating gaze to assault every inch of him, and forced his façade to remain calm and open. When the analysis ended, Sherlock seemed more at ease, but didn't stop watching him like a hawk, if Lestrade so much as twitched.

"You can call me Greg, if you wish." He pulled the chair closer. "Now-" Before he could continue, Sherlock popped up.

"You're a detective, recently promoted. You're single, live alone, and have a heart for kids, especially ones you perceive to be less fortunate that most of the population. Once we're better, following your good conscience, you'll place us into the "system", instead of allowing us to return to what you believe is a misfortunate lifestyle." The contempt held for Lestrade and the so called 'system, did not go unnoticed. "Am I wrong?" He answered his own question, rather than allowing either one to attempt to. "Of course not, I'm never wrong," he snarled, lip curled.

Brows raised in shock, he wasn't sure on how to respond to that tirade. "Wow, you know a lot of big words for your age, bud. Quite the smart lad, aren't ya?" He hid his grin at the confliction that splayed across the young boy's face: preen at the praise or scoff at the choice of focus. "You are, however, not completely right," he informed him and chuckled at the slight indignation on the prepubescent features. John watched him curiously; obviously content to not take the lead.

"What?" he spluttered, a glint of interest in his eyes. His less injured, nubby hand grasped at John's sleeve, wrinkling the material.

Greg's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "I am a police officer," he confirmed, "promoted to detective inspector. I'm single, live alone, and there will always be a special place in my heart for kids. You're not going back on the streets, so long as I have any say in the matter. However, I don't have any intention to place you in the foster care system, unless it is your desire to be there."

Both boys stared at him in surprise and suspicion at the implication, one, wary, the other with a bit of hope. "And I suppose you're going to personally see to us, then?" the haughty question earned him a clip to the ear.

"Sherlock! Goodness, be nice will ya?" John's fond exasperation scolded.

Lestrade ignored it and answered, "Well, yeah. I suppose that's the idea, if you're up for giving it a go."

"How that supposed to work, Mr. Lestr- Greg…?" John asked, looking him straight in the eye, as if watching for any dishonesty.

"Well, I'll get temporary custody of you boys, shouldn't be too hard, and we'll just test the waters. If we all agree to it, when the time is right, I'll adopt you." The explanation seemed to appease the sandy haired boy, who clearly seemed more rational.

"Yeah, right," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll get tired of us, or won't be able to deal with me and hand me off to somebody else. Or, if no one will take us, you'll find another way to keep me in line. Lock me up, or cutting, or beating, or, or, or, send John Away. NO! NO, You can't! You can't send John away, I'll be good! I promise." What started out strong and defiant quickly went downhill as he started to speak trancelike, until it dissolved into hysterics and miserable, penitent, pleas and promises.

John grabbed the closest of Sherlock's wrists, restraining him from the expected self-harm, as Lestrade, leapt from his seat to wrap the boy into a bear hug. The frantic machines alerted nurses to the panic, who burst through the door, further sending Sherlock into fight mode. Lestrade glared at them to leave, and assured them that he felt confident to handle an malnourished child. He'd dealt with hysterical children in his line of work, far too often for his liking.

Sherlock fought him, struggled in his grip, screamed, and apologized over and over. Greg rode the waves of panic, not letting loose, even when a small head slammed into his chest. Eventually, the slight form relaxed in his hold and Lestrade forced his heart to slow down. Panic was catching and he didn't want a repeat performance.

"Miss, grab that bag by the door and hand it here, please," Lestrade requested of the remaining nurse. She did as asked, setting it on the mattress before taking her leave. She'd give them a moment before calling for three meals to be brought up, and the doctor for an examination.

With one arm still wrapped around the putty in his arms, he tipped the bag over, spilling out the contents. John's eyes lit up at the stuffed animals and he quickly grabbed the brown and black one, hugging it close to him. Greg smiled at the sight and grabbed the beige one, pressing it to the little boy he held. Sherlock grabbed it, holding it arm's length as he examined it closely. Determining it fine he brought it up to rub at his cheek.

The cuteness of the endearing scene did not diminish the severity of what had occurred and it would need to be addressed. Lestrade gathered up his wits, and hoped he was doing the right thing. "Sherlock, sunshine, I'm not going to do any of that." It wasn't lost on him that even John had looked sick at Sherlock's mutterings. He didn't know how long his boys had been on the streets, not likely to have been long, all things considered. He wasn't sure how long they had been together, either, long enough to grow dependent, but not long enough to know all of the background details, it would seem. "We will discuss rules, and punishments, and whatnot, when you're both out of the hospital and settled into my home, or if you would prefer, we can do it a bit later, but before we leave here. Nonetheless, I can promise you right now, I won't, and won't allow anyone else to, abuse or harm you in any manner. I promised to keep you and John together as best as I can and I don't say things I don't mean, understand?" He felt the little head nod against his chest. He looked toward John to make sure he understood those words for him too. The responding nod put him at ease. It wasn't that easy of course, they would need reminding, no doubt, but he'd worry about that bridge when he got to it.

"Thank you, for the bear, sir," John said, expression quite serious, giving a pointed look to Sherlock too. The parroted appreciation had John grinning at him.

"You're welcome."

About that time, a trolley came through with trays smelling of chicken and chips. A nurse deposited three trays to the room, smiling kindly at them, and informing them that a doctor would be in shortly. After much prodding, much more than it should have been for half-starved boys, they all tucked into the warm meal.

Sherlock poked at the chicken, but nibbled on the cookie, content. John, once started nearly inhaled the chicken and chips on his plate. He left his cookie alone and took Sherlock's, who glared at him. John then put a fry in to grasp to replace the pinched sweet. Sherlock begrudgingly ate half of the food on his tray before John allowed him back his cookie and gave the boy his own.

Lestrade's stomach protested food after the panic attack he'd dealt with, the words making his insides turn. However, he ate even so, to be an example and put the kids at ease. He would need the energy later he was sure.

Soon after lunch was finished, the ER doctor, Dr. Hannigan, came in to check John's shoulder and Sherlock's arms. Lestrade was relieved to hear that they were healing nicely. Dr. Hannigan ordered a sponge bath for John, as he didn't want the dressing wet, and told Greg that Sherlock should be ok to get washed in the bathtub. She left an ointment for Sherlock's arms and hands and left to get a nurse for John.

John's sense of modesty took a large hit and his protests at the nurse undressing him and washing him went unheard. Sherlock, however, Greg found out, had no such inhibitions. He allowed the inspector to untie the gown and help him into a warm bath and wash him. It would seem that the younger boy was actually fond of his bath time, which was a relief. Greg laughed as he was splashed and splashed the imp in return. Sherlock told him after a bit of teasing, that he wanted to be a pirate when he grew up, because pirates were cool, and water was fun.

The only portion of bathing Sherlock had issues with was washing his hair. The boy had beautiful curls atop his head that had not seen scissors in some time. They were full of tats that had Sherlock scowling at him when his fingers found one. He'd have to remedy that issue when they left the hospital.

Afterwards, with both kids clean and resettled into bed, Greg made a phone call. "Hey, Sally, could I get you to bring me few spare changes of clothes, and a toiletry bag? Yeah, at Barts, with the boys. Yes, Sally, the ones that we caught. Just bring me some clothes would ya." He ended the call with a sigh and sat back in his chair. Both boys watched him, expectantly, so Greg found the remote and handed it over to John.

The older boy tried to settle on some cartoon of sorts, but Sherlock deemed it below their intelligence, so instead of trying it again, he passed the remote over to him. Sherlock found a documentary on seahorses and snuggled up to John. "This should be interesting, don't you think?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." The reply was long-suffering, but there was no complaint.

The night ended on a quiet note. Sally brought him a duffel bag field with clothes and anything else he could need. She also made a special stop to make amends for her earlier behavior and brought the boys a couple suckers and tooth brushes with bubblegum toothpaste. After dinner, Greg helped John do his teeth and let Sherlock go do his own.

The nurses brought in a cot for him to stretch out, seeing as he was going to be with them until they were released. There were nightmares that neither would speak about, but Greg was going to have to address sometime soon. All in all, he considered it a successful day. John and Sherlock were on the physical mend, they seemed to like him well enough, and that was a good start.

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A/n: Still don't own Sherlock. I was informed that I had to continue on as my friend's life depended on it, so I wrote a second chapter for this story. I may make more, depending. I'm not as fond of this chapter as I am the other, but I hope you like it. Still unbetaed. If you like it or have any thoughts, leave a review. Thank you, and hope you enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

You asked for more, I'm giving you more! I'm glad to see this story so well received. I intended to make it more series like, but for now, it seems to be progressing differently. So here's chapter 3, it's shorter than the others, sorry about that. I've had a migraine for nearly a month now, and an influx of papers have come in for grading, so I've not had a lot of time or motivation to write. I hope you enjoy nonetheless, and I look forward to reading your thoughts. Thank you again for all the support and reviews. Biggest thank you goes to my friend and beta "Proud to be an X-nerd" for helping me out. You're the best!

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The following morning was quiet. They didn't seem to have a particular problem with Lestrade. For the most part, they even accepted his presence and allowed interaction between them, but otherwise both boys ignored the inspector. Instead, they generally kept to themselves, speaking in low volumes and tones, avoiding tasks in which they couldn't do for themselves. Sherlock even went so far as to feed John himself, rather than let Greg help out, when John became frustrated with his left arm. He couldn't help but feel slightly hurt by this; he had been certain progress was being made the other night. Even so, he persevered; it had probably been ages since they had relied on anyone but each other, and not many children willingly interacted with adults.

Breakfast turned to lunch, and noon turned to evening, with the small television in the corner producing the most sound in the last several hours. The detective dozed on and off throughout the last few shows as between the healing and the drugs neither of the boys were usually awake for long and therefore, it was safe for him to catch a few winks. Lestrade had even managed to sneak out for some of the sludge the hospital disguised as coffee once or twice while the boys had slept. It was the dinner cart rolling in that woke the sleeping detective, just in time to see sharp eyes watching slam shut. Sherlock had been awake after all. He thanked the nurse and turned to wake John and Sherlock, letting the boy think he hadn't been caught.

With a gentle hand on his good shoulder, Greg gently shook the sandy haired preteen. "Come on, John, there's a good lad. Time for supper and then you can sleep again." He chuckled at the grumbles, and then frowned with the grimacing that came from having to move and sit up. He pushed the kid back, using a remote to sit the bed up, to minimize the pain. "Easy, John, I'll take care of the part."

A quiet "thanks" came in reply and Greg moved on to the burrowed lump beside his upright charge. "Come on, Sherlock. You're hungry aren't you?" The lump closest to the pillow shook a negative. "Not even a little bit?" Again, a shake of the head, "Well, then I guess that means I can have this chocolate biscuit on your tray, yeah?"

Curls popped from the scratchy, thin blanket, followed by the return of that piercing gaze, as if assessing if the adult would truly eat his treat. Greg was bluffing, of course, but he still made to act out his threat, reaching for the coveted cookie. A bandaged hand reached from the lump of covers and snatched the sweet from the tray and back into the darkness with him. Before the limb was completely contracted, John took hold of the slim wrist. "Come out, Sher. Eat some real food before you set out to rot your teeth."

Weak tugging preceded a plaintive whine, but it wasn't long before the youngster divested his warm burrow; mostly, at least. Sherlock sat up, but used his free hand to keep himself covered on the right side. John let him loose once he saw he was being obeyed. John nodded and began his struggle of trying to eat with the wrong hand. He senses the officer wanted to help him, but he was too unsure after the last incident, and John was too proud to ask for help. Sherlock would probably help him in a bit, anyhow. Except, Sherlock was eating with his non-dominant hand also, and he wasn't the only one to notice.

Sherlock's left hand descended upon the finger friendly foods: the bread and the cookies, but left the soup untouched. The bowl contained a light broth, nothing too mushy, so John knew he wasn't ignoring the food on texture principle. He watched in his peripheral, more subtle than Greg, who was trying to analyze the reason as to why, rather than ask. Once, there was nothing left to grab, he noticed Sherlock looked longingly at the spoon and then down again. He trudged through his own meal and became more suspicious when the younger boy didn't offer assistance, even when Greg stepped up to help. The smaller form just glared at the man, and bit his lip as he pulled the blankets closer.

"Mmm, this soup is good," John exaggerated, as Greg lifted a spoonful. "Sherlock, don't you want yours?" The curls bobbed up and down. "Then eat it, it'll warm you up better than blanket will. From the inside out."

Sherlock bit his lip again, and looked from his friend to the bowl. He hesitated, but he did reach for the spoon. Almost all of the liquid made it to his mouth, he smiled, until he noticed the wet warmth seeping on to his leg.

"Use your right hand, Sher, otherwise you're just going to make a mess. Just 'cause I can't use mine, doesn't mean you can't use yours. I won't mind," John hoped that Sherlock was just trying to empathize, but that was dashed when Sherlock grasped the blankets tighter to his right side. He shook his head at John, but didn't reach for the spoon again.

Beyond suspicious now, Greg reached to take away the cover, but paused when teeth were bared and a growl emanated. Brow raised he glanced at John for help. John ignored the hostile behavior and yanked the blankets away from the anxiously, aggressive child. The resounding yelp was a mixture of pain and fear.

Sherlock guarded a bloody gauze close to his chest, wrapping around himself as much as he could. His left hand rose to his mouth, teeth nibbled at long fingers. John snatched that hand away and held it securely in his own. He was trying not to let his alarm show, he wasn't new to this type of behavior, but it never got easy to see. Greg reached for the crimson covered hand again, and Sherlock flinched. He paused a foot away. "Sherlock, will you show me where you're hurt?"

A slight rocking motion was his response, but he caught stormy eyes assessing both him and John. "Not mad?" The eight year old sounded so much younger, it nearly squeezed his heart in two. Before he could answer, John spoke up.

"Yes." The next flinch was ignored and Greg almost asked what John was thinking, but was cut off. "Yes, I am mad that you hurt yourself, but, that's ok." John's thumb brushed across knuckles. "It's not ok that you injured yourself," he amended, to make himself clear, "but it's ok that I'm mad about it. Being mad about that means I care. Remember?"

Sherlock nodded. He bit his lip again turned back to Greg expectantly. "I'm not mad, Sherlock." The crestfallen face was quick to recover and the detective would have thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, if he didn't know better. "I'm worried, concerned, but that doesn't mean I don't care. Now, can I see your hand?" The limb was produced and Greg winced at the damage. The gauze had been mostly chewed through and teeth impressions littered the once white skin. The smaller bites had blood clotted, the larger wound still had ringlets of blood trickling out. He noticed a couple had pockets of yellowish white scabbing over them.

"Sherlock, I think a couple of these are infected. I'm going to call the nurse and you're going to let them treat you, understood?" He told the boy, the no nonsense tone concealing the worry.

The fleeting half smile given from John is reassuring that he did something right. Greg called a nurse in to check the wounds, but wouldn't let her push him from the room. Without him there, he was sure Sherlock wouldn't let the woman even have a peek at his hands. Without fuss, Sherlock produced his injured limb from the protective pool of blankets, eyes darting between the nurse and Lestrade. The examination started smoothly, visual assessment was just fine, but when the nurse went to palpate the arm, Sherlock jerked back like he'd been touched with a hot poker.

"Sherlock," Greg warned. Even with brief escapes and the odd snooze, he was still exhausted and really didn't feel up to fighting the boy on this.

The child gritted his teeth, but flung his arm back towards the nurse with a huff. He glared angrily into the abyss, flinching with every stroke across his battered flesh. He shrugged off the comforting hand John had tried to rest upon his shoulder, and returned to pointedly ignoring everyone.

"Well, young man," the nurse addressed her pouting charge. "It would seem you've done quite the number on yourself." She turned toward Greg and informed him, "I'll have Dr. Wesslyn prescribe some antibiotics, and see about getting these wounds cleaned and dressed." She returned to prodding at the arm in her grasp, mashing at a particularly nasty bite. The pus that oozed had John gagging and he quickly looked away. "If you continue to self-injure like this, I'm afraid we'll have to restrain you, son. The human mouth is full of harmful bacteria."

The reaction was instant; Sherlock lurched backwards, crouching down low and defensive. His teeth bared and the resounding growl was almost feral. If Greg hadn't known any better he would have thought he was looking at a wild dog backed into a corner. John leapt into action, putting himself between the threat and his friend, his own face fierce and protective. Greg stepped forward and placed a firm, reassuring hand on John's shoulder.

"That won't be necessary, ma'am."

"I understand it is not ideal. I would hate for the child to endure it as well, but for his safety and health it is an option that you really need to keep as a possibility, and one we might not have a choice in. We only want to make sure that the lad is cared for." Her hands on her hips, she stood her ground, obviously used to dealing with obstinate patients and families.

Greg would remain unmoved on the matter though. Nothing, barring a life or death situation, would sway him to allow wrist cuffs on the boy. There were other routes to try before even considering extreme methods. "That won't be necessary, ma'am," he repeated, firmly. Without glancing at them, he asked, "Will it, boys?"

Two head rose up in acknowledgement, nodding emphatically. The pairs of eyes returned to their hostile showdown afterwards. The nurse rolled her eyes, but let it go for now. She turned to leave, but muttered a "we'll see" under her breath. The door shut behind her, closing out the tension and hustle of the rest of the hospital. John's shoulder sagged under Greg's heavy hand and he shrugged it off as he twirled to gather his friend in a tight hug.

"It's alright now, Sher," He petted the boy's curls. "No one's going to tie you up. Even Greg won't let, did ya hear that?"

"I'm not a dog," came the muffled response. His face buried in John's shirt, he heaved a watery sigh. The adrenaline rush wearing off quickly, leeching what energy he had gained from the long lasting rest he'd been getting.

The lines in Greg's face melted as his frown deepened. He didn't bother to hide it from the calculating eye that popped from its hiding spot in John's chest. He was growing more concerned about what the boys might have gone through, and worried he might not be able to deal with it when he found out. The stress was almost overwhelming as the feelings of inadequacy and being in over his head danced across his mind and heart. These boys were going to need better than good intentions and a roof, and food.

"No, Sher, not a dog." He squeezed the boy once more and set him back up on the bed, distracting him while they waited for someone to come and take care of Sherlock's arms.

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Hope you enjoyed. Leave a message with your thoughts, please. God Bless!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: It's been a while since I've posted, so sorry about that. All the reviews and encouragement is much appreciated. My friend and beta "Proud to be an X-nerd" has kindly stepped up to co-write this series with me. We worked hard to merge are writing styles together to make it flow naturally. We do hope you continue to enjoy it!

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 **One Step Back, Two Steps Forward**

He had stepped out for twenty minutes, just long enough to get a change of clothes and food that wasn't the inedible mush that the hospital tried to pass off as a nutritious meal. Both boys had been asleep at that, so, Greg found it incredibly difficult to understand how he could have left a tranquil room and food that wasn't the inedible mush that the hospital tried to pass off as a nutritious meal. Both boys had been asleep at that, so, Greg found it incredibly difficult to understand how he could have left a tranquil room and came back to chaos.

Sherlock was a feral creature, screaming and snarling in unadulterated fear and rage, while John, likewise in frenzy, fought tooth and nail to keep the nurses away from them both. An orderly was using his much larger frame to force John back, reaching for the youth to restrain him. The blood running down his arms, showed the trouble he got for his efforts.

Once space was cleared from the smaller boy's bed, Greg could see what had probably set things in motion. Sherlock was secured to his cot by both wrists, with soft material binds. His frantic tugs for freedom didn't hinder his fight, as flailing legs struck out to find flesh and bone. The doctor was sporting a nice shiner, more than likely from Sherlock's feisty foot.

Greg saw red as he watched the hectic struggle for peace and order. They had waited until he was absent to do as they were instructed not to, much like rebellious children, and now they couldn't handle the consequences. Their actions weren't just affecting them either. He stepped fully into view and the room quietened as he watched the hectic struggle for peace and order.

"What in the world is going on in here," he demanded, even though he already knew. The medical personnel had the decency to look abashed. He stalked over to Sherlock and began to undo the bonds that held him, ignoring the teeth that bared in warning. "If I recall correctly, you were told specifically not to restrain him." He undid the other arm and inspected the mild cloth burns. He turned again towards the doctor, one he had not met before, who was most likely the current physician on duty, "When I left, both boys were asleep, so I know there was no cause for this!"

"With all due respect, Inspector," started Dr. Wesslyn, "I do believe in matters dealing with their health, that we are the experts, and-"

"You aren't supposed to go against patient wishes if there isn't a reason to, you arrogant sod!" John raged as he wrestled out of the orderly's loosened grip.

"John, language!" Greg admonished.

He took a deep breath, willing his anger to simmer down. Pointer finger and thumb pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed, he counted to ten. "Get out, all of you. Unless it's an emergency or you need to check vitals, stay out. And I want you to contact Dr. Hannigan, she's the boys' doctor, and I don't want anyone else working with them at this point."

"Sir, you can't just-"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" The detectives badge on his belt caught the light as Greg shifted.

Teeth gritted, the medical professional responded, "No, sir." He herded his people from the room, and set about finding the requested physician.

Greg took a deep breath, keeping his back turned to the boys until he was sure he was able to wipe the anger and frustration off his face. When he turned around, he felt a pang in his chest at the scene playing out in front of him.

While he had been talking to Wesslyn, John had made his way over to Sherlock's bed, climbing up next to his friend. Sherlock had buried his face in John's neck, and was trembling in fear and passing adrenaline as John stroked a hand through the now tangled curls, his other arm held Sherlock awkwardly from within the sling. As Greg slowly approached the duo, he could hear John's gentle words of comfort to his friend.

"It's okay Lock... I promise it's alright. They're gone now... No one's going to hurt you. I won't let them." The last statement was said with an air of such fierce protectiveness that Greg had to hide a proud smile.

He approached the raised, sleeping cot, cautious, hands splayed out before him. Careful not to touch either of his traumatized wards, he offered what comfort and security he could from the short distance away. He was rewarded by trusting eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments, John's attention quickly returning to Sherlock's firm grip and shaking figure.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry that I left... If I had known," the lump in his throat protested the speech. A hesitant hand reached out, retracting at the flinch.

"Son, look at me," he tried, clearing his voice of the waver.

Sherlock, still fast pressed against John, shook his head. Greg sighed, frustrated. After all the time and effort he'd spent trying to gain these children's' trust, who knows how many steps back this event had pushed them.

John reached out, Sherlock whimpered as the fingers ceased their progression through his curls, to grab Greg's sleeve. Greg met his tired eyes, and was surprised by the small, encouraging smile he saw flitter across John's face.

"It's okay. Greg is here now. He's not going to let them bother us any more, okay?"

The DI was staggered at the vote of confidence from the older of the two, and let himself feel a little hope that maybe they wouldn't have to start all over. He spoke again to Sherlock, keeping his voice light and gentle. "Come now, lad, look at me, won't ya?"

John nudged his friend, urging the boy to obey, faith secured in their new protector. When Sherlock bade the command, eyes downcast, but attentive, Greg continued,

"What that doctor did was wrong; he had no right to treat you that way. Even though I'm sure his intentions weren't cruel, it still was. I'm going to make sure that it doesn't happen to you again, you understand?"

With a slow gravity that did not fit with his young age Sherlock looked up and nodded his head. His eyes searched Greg's with an almost desperate appeal to them, as if he was silently begging the DI not to be lying. It hurt Greg's heart to guess what they must have been through for this little boy to carry so much distrust and sorrow.

 _It doesn't matter,_ Greg thought fiercely, _No matter what has happened to them, I'm going to make sure it doesn't ever happen again._ With this silent vow, Greg took a deep breath and turned his full attention back to the boys.

~SLLC~

Dr. Hannigan apologized profusely for several minutes for her colleague. She assured the group that she would speak to the chief of staff on the matter and guaranteed that everyone on the list to work with the boys were well aware of the situation. Nothing else like that would happen again. Though she tried to apologize to both John and Sherlock, her words were met with cold acceptance by the former, and an almost vicious sneer from the latter.

Greg was happy the boys had forgiven him so quickly, but it seemed that continued trust did not extend to any of the hospital staff. He couldn't blame them to be honest, but he could see where it was going to become an issue. They'd cross that bridge when they got there though.

Dr. Hannigan informed them that the psychiatrist on staff would be stopping by to see them some time that day, after lunch, and that if they were feeling up to it, they would be allowed to take a walk around after their session. John and Sherlock were quite overt with their displeasure and protests, however, the physician would not be swayed.

"Its standard procedure in cases like this," Dr. Hannigan told Lestrade later, after pulling him aside. The two of them were observing the boys as they argued over what to watch on Television while John tried to get Sherlock to eat his carrots and Sherlock kept sneaking them over onto John's plate.

"This is hardly a "standard" case though." The DI said, trying to keep the sullen edge from his voice. He knew that this was the right thing, but he couldn't help worrying that this might frighten the boys, and he was loathe to do anything that would make them uncomfortable so soon.

"The exact circumstances? No, perhaps not. But children suffering from neglect and abuse? Sadly, that is, by no means, an uncommon occurrence."

Greg sighed, knowing he was beat. The gentle words of the doctor bothered him. Thinking about all the children she must have seen over time, in situations like this broke his heart. The idea that these two boys, so intertwined with one another, had been through so much, made him sick.

"Alright, I get it. Just... if either of them really starts to get upset..."

"These situations are seldom comfortable, Detective Inspector. If they were, no one would be averse to therapy. But I can promise you, if either of them truly starts to panic, then we will let them take a break."

"Will they be allowed to stay together for the session?"

"Normally I would say no, but I've told Dr. Spencer the circumstances, and she's agreed to hold the first few as 'group' or 'family' sessions. That will give the boys a chance to become familiar with her in a neutral environment and without worrying about one another."

Here Dr. Hannigan paused for a moment, obviously trying to phrase something in a way that he would be more open to listening too. Greg wasn't fooled. He hadn't been a copper as long as he had and not be able to recognize human reactions.

"Spill it, Doc. I'm not going to wither away if you hurt my feelings." He tried to keep his voice slightly teasing to show there weren't any hard feelings.

Hannigan smiled for a moment before becoming serious again. "Don't take this the wrong way Inspector..."

"It's Greg, Doc. I figure we'll be seeing each other a lot. No need for formalities."

"Greg then." Her tone softened, "Just don't go into this situation with a distrustful attitude. My brother is an officer, and I know how psychiatrists are viewed on the Force. But these boys _need_ professional help. They need someone who can pinpoint what's been done and lead us to a treatment plan that will set them on the right track. Please... don't go into this with your hackles raised. Both of them will pick up on that, and I can promise you, if you are uncomfortable or hostile with Dr. Spencer, they will be too. If that happens, we won't be able to help them."

"I think you're putting a little too much stock in their opinion of me, Doc-"

"Kelly."

This time it was Greg's turn to grin. "Kelly. I don't think they are too concerned with my thoughts on most anything."

"Really?" The Doctor raised one elegant eyebrow and gave him a sardonic look. "May I point out that since the incident yesterday, even though none of the same nurses have been assigned to the boys, anyone who comes into this room is met with suspicion?"

"That's understandable after what happened..."

"It is. But the thing is, Greg, they didn't start acting like that towards the nurses until _you_ did. You have been glaring daggers at any and all of my people who walk into this room. I've watched John on three separate occasions glance your way, see the look you were giving one of the aides, and his entire demeanor changed. He became closed off, uncertain and even more protective of Sherlock. As soon as that happens, Sherlock reads that energy, and reacts to John. Either he becomes withdrawn or starts spitting angry or hurtful words at whoever is there."

Here she paused, giving the shocked detective a moment to catch up. "Whether you know it or not, they are already following your lead. Make sure your actions and predilections don't take them down a road that will do more harm than good."

~SLLC~

The afternoon came too soon in Sherlock's opinion. The meal that was served was mediocre at best, and they pumped him and John full of different medications. He didn't like it one bit. It took the edge off the pain in his arms and hands, but it also made him feel unlike himself. It worried him that John was pleased to get drugged without question.

It wasn't long after they had been medicated that a gangling lady, dressed in a light grey dress with a wide black belt, sauntered into their room. A light knock announced her unwelcome presence and Sherlock was on guard in an instant. Her friendly smile and geeky black glasses didn't fool him in the slightest. He knew exactly what she was there for. John, however, appeared to be somewhat oblivious.

"Hello, boys," she greeted, tone overly chipper. It already grated on Sherlock's fragile nerves. He didn't like her. Her frames didn't fit her face, and her fingernail polish was chipped. Her blond hair was in a messy bun, and the disorderly appearance was like nails on a chalkboard to him.

She gave a sly grin in Greg's direction. "Hey dad, why don't you go and grab a coffee real quick. I'll keep an eye on the kiddo's for ya."

She winked at him to emphasize the hinted nudge, but he was still reluctant to leave. Neither boy seemed keen on his absence either, but he knew that they were unlikely to speak openly with him there. With great effort, and Dr. Hannigan's words still swirling around in his mind, he squeezed out of the room. He didn't go farther than outside the door; just because he couldn't be in there with them, didn't mean he was going to leave either.

"Your pops loves you something fierce, ya know? I don't think he's left you guys alone more than an hour at a time your whole stay here" she told them. Her unwavering smile eased a little tension in John. There was nothing threatening about the petite young woman. "I'm Riley Spencer, nice to meet you," her hand jutted out and her greeting ended more in askance.

"I'm John," uninjured hand met the young woman's with a firm grasp. "Greg's not our dad... but he does seem to care about us."

She looked towards the curly haired child, hand aimed in his direction. Sherlock pointedly ignored the gesture, tight lipped. Taking the hint she moved on, "It's nice of him to stick around to look after you then, huh?"

"Yeah, he's pretty cool. Not anything like most adults we're used to," John replied, seemingly mesmerized with the energy Dr. Spencer gave off. Sherlock gritted his teeth, glaring daggers between the two.

"Oh, and what sort of adults are you used to then?" She questioned, eyes masked with innocent curiosity. She could hear the younger boy's jaw clinch and was mildly concerned that he might break his teeth should he grind them any harder.

"Well, crappy, honestly. Most adults chase us away, or treat us like criminals or animals. Oftentimes they'll say mean things."

"Why do you think that is? You don't seem like bad boys," she inquired. She hoped that by using the plural form that it would encourage Sherlock to join in on the conversation.

"I don't know. We haven't really done anything that I can think of that would warrant that sort of reaction. I mean... we have stolen a bit, but only things we really needed!" He was quick to assure her. So focused on the female in the room, he didn't notice Sherlock's growing agitation.

"I see. Why did you feel you needed to steal? Did you feel unable to go to the police or any family for help?" She steered the chat into deeper waters.

"Well-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming a hand against his ear and the other over John's mouth. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" His limbs flailed against their targets unintentionally with every shriek. "Don't you see what she's doing? Are you so blind that you willingly fall into her game!" He yelled, his betrayal fueling his anger.

Shocked by the sudden outburst, and pain in his lips, John lurched away from the attack. His own discontentment grew, feeding off of Sherlock's tantrum. The hurt showed clearly on the blonde's face and he went to calm his friend, but Sherlock wasn't ready for his ruffled feathers to be soothed.

Dr. Spencer rose to help, pulling at John to guide him away from any more bouts of aggression. Sherlock mistook the gesture for the young woman taking John from him and he wailed louder. His small form launched from the bed and onto John, preventing his presumed departure. Small hands clawed and clung and John howled in pain as Sherlock caught his injured arm, his jagged fingernails tearing at flesh and pulling at his damaged limb.

Greg barged in, followed by Dr. Hannigan, as the screaming increased in volume. Upon seeing the damage Sherlock was causing in his hysterics, Greg rushed to pull the child off his friend. A kick to his groin had the man doubled over and his grip on Sherlock released. Dr. Kelly went to aide Dr. Spencer in tending to John.

Sherlock ran to the bed and banged his fists on the metal railing, spitting fire and fear. John cried out miserably, powerless to stop his own cries or to help Sherlock. His muffled protests, when Greg and Dr. Kelly tried to usher John out, were mistaken for further sniffles, Dr. Spencer knelt down to Sherlock's eye level and placed her hand where the curly haired head was now setting a steady rhythm alongside his pounding fists.

"Stop," she called out to the two adults herding her other ward. Ignoring the sting in her palm and the keening, she continued, "John doesn't have to leave, Sherlock will calm down if he stays where he is." Returning her attention back to said young man, she asked, "Won't you, buddy? Can you use your words now, please?"

Fingers tugged at his curls and his right hand reached out toward John. Eyes swelled and overflowed and mucous stuffed his nasal passage and ran to the base of his lip; he looked unnaturally pitiful when he croaked the only thing that mattered. "John." His hand opened and closed, not unlike a toddler's version of "grabby hands".

With a gentleness that only John had managed before, Dr. Riley extracted the self-injurious fingers and accepted a Kleenex from her colleague. She cleaned up the marred features, wiping away the mess from his face as she murmured nonsense to soothe the child.

"Sherlock," John spoke from where he was leaning, exhausted, against Greg, his face ashen from the pain in his arm. Sherlock sobbed again, softer this time, still looking lost as he reached out for his friend.

"Sherlock, let..." John paused to swallow hard, swaying slightly. "Let her look at you, okay?"

Greg was kneeling next to the older boy, supporting his weight as John fought to stay upright. "John, lets worry about you for a minute, okay lad? Do you think you can make it back to the bed?"

John took another deep breath, swallowed, and then gave a minor shake of his head. Greg winced internally. For John to admit weakness, that meant the boy must have been in agony.

"Can we get him some pain meds, Doc?" Greg inquired, looking up where Dr. Hannigan stood next to them, very carefully examining John's arm.

Before the physician could reply, John cut in, "No. I'm... I'm fine. I don't need it." His voice was shaky and feeble. Something in that tone must have reached Sherlock, because the boy froze, going unnaturally still. His eyes went wide and locked onto John's face as if there was nothing else important in the world.

Dr. Hannigan knelt down to speak to John. "It's okay to relax, John; your body is too tense right now. It's not good for your arm. The medicine will help you calm down."

Again the blonde boy shook his head. "They make me sleepy... I... I need to-to be awake. Sher-Sherlock needs me."

"John," stronger now, the underlying waver did not go unnoticed. "It's ok...just, just let them make you better." The fragile facade barely hid the underlying misery and self-loathing. He raised his arms to be lifted to his bed, in hopes John would see and let himself be looked after. He almost controlled the flinch when someone that was not John touched him, almost. Dr. Spencer lifted him to the mattress and patted a bony shoulder.

John stubbornly continued to shake his head, but he did turn to Greg and in a small, shaky voice asked, "Can... can you help me over there?"

Greg sighed, understanding what John didn't say. With a care so tender it surprised himself, he lifted John into his arms and, reading the boy's mind again, brought him over to Sherlock's bed. He helped him lean back against the pillows, fluffing them up behind the boy so he would be comfortable.

Sherlock, with a desperate whine, buried his face in the covers by John's hip, curling away from John's out-stretched hand, and in on himself. Even in a state of guilt, he was still unable to go far from his friend's side. He needed John as much as he needed oxygen to breathe, and though he was sure John would be better off without his freakish tendencies, he was too selfish to set him free. He would just have to put forth a stronger effort to be better...better for John.

John, seeing his friend's torment, let out a weary sigh. While he was by no means a genius like his friend, John was a master in one field, and that was Sherlock. He knew what his friend was thinking as well as Sherlock knew the goings on of the people around him.

"Hey, Sher, I promise. I'm going to be okay. I'm just a little shook up. It's no big deal. Everything is going to be fine." John wished he could make his voice a little steadier, but the pain in his arm was making it so hard to think.

The mantra was the same every time. It never failed to make Sherlock feel worse. "It's ok, Sherlock." "It's not a big deal, Sherlock." all in that quiet tone, trying to not frighten the skittish mutt, with eyes that couldn't hide unease. It was all a lie. Nothing was ok about this and it was a very big deal! He had hurt John!

When he squinted an eye open, to peek over at the other boy, the half-moon indentions made his stomach roll. He did that, caused that pain, ripped into that flesh. Remorse sat heavy in his gullet, and he fought to swallow the rock at the back of his throat. The duvet shielded the renewed wetness, sucking in the salty tears like a sponge. He sniffled quietly and a hand drifted to clutch at the damp blanket so he wouldn't reach out for John. He couldn't risk hurting him again, especially so soon. Nope, he would keep his hands to himself, that way, if the urge overwhelmed him, the only one to get hurt was him, and that was okay. At least it was with him.

John looked up at Greg, who was still standing next to their bed, hand resting lightly against the back of John's neck. John had spent his life being yanked around by his neck, or having it grabbed in some effort to control or punish him. If there was one place he would have always thought he would hate being touched, it was there. However, as Greg stood there, his eyes filled with compassion and worry, John thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't so bad.

Greg had no idea the thoughts of the young boy who was now leaning into his warmth. He only knew that these two children, his charges, needed help, and he meant to provide it. With a slight nod at Dr. Hannigan, Greg shifted so he could reach over John's legs to stroke his fingers through Sherlock's matted hair.

The first touch was met with a shuddering flinch as the smaller boy tried to inch away from the unexpected contact. Unfazed by the recoil, Greg continued to massage the tension away. Mentally patting himself on the back as the rigid form pushed back into the dancing fingers. Obviously Sherlock found pressure soothing. He filed that away for later use. Now he had the imminent issue of reconciling the kids, and Sherlock with himself.

Dr. Hannigan stepped up behind him, resting her hand briefly on Greg's shoulder, alerting him to her presence. Glancing back, he realized what she was doing and shifted over, letting his hand fall from John. He didn't notice the flicker of disappointment cross the tanned features.

Dr. Spencer slipped out as Dr. Hannigan bandaged the new set of wounds on John, already aware of how she was going to write her report. A list of treatment plans filtered through her brain, as she mentally crossed through the ones that wouldn't quite fit her patients. Whatever she settled on, one thing was certain, they would do it together. Individual needs would have to be tended to once the codependency was addressed. While John stood a chance to heal without Sherlock being there every step of the way, there was no way Sherlock would cooperate with any treatment unless John was part of it. For now, anyway, time and healing would change that, she hoped.

Once back at her office, she set about writing down different strategies and phoning some colleagues for ideas and assistance to set some plans underway. Greg had love and care covered, Dr. Hannigan and staff were fixing the physical wounds, and she was going to work on the mental and emotional. The road ahead was long and potentially bumpy, but if she had any say in the matter, they would reach the other end happy and healthy.

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Let us know what you thought. We're both busy, but we're making good progress on more chapters in this adventure.


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